In Which a Family Therapist is Probably in Order
by Sketchling
Summary: And here, we witness two teenage girls coping with angst and multiple other issues. Which, of course, is made up for with gracious Lalondecest. Sort of.


**A/N:** Yeah I wrote a thing about angsty teenagers and stuff.

Go me.

_**In Which a Family Therapist is Probably in Order**_

You're a bit surprised when you find her in her small room, clutching a purple-striped scarf tightly to her chest with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her lighter, curly blonde hair is a mess. Her pale skin is adorned with a variety of scrapes and bruises, and there's dirt stained on some parts of her clothing.

You pause in the doorway, staring at her figure, curled up into a helpless ball on her bed. It's heart-wrenching, and you rap your knuckles lightly on the hard metal of the doorframe to catch her attention. She hiccups and jumps, startled, whipping her head up to look at you.

"I don't mean to intrude on a moment that's obviously very personal," you say calmly, "but I just thought it would be appropriate to check up on you."

She blinks rapidly, and her bright eyes are bloodshot from all her weeping. You feel your heart drop in your chest. "M'fine," she says, and although she's quietly laughing, you can tell that she's not fine at all. Her voice is hoarse. "I'm just a lil' tired."

Which, of course, is total bullshit.

You inhale quietly through your nostrils before stepping into the room and closing the door shut behind you. That familiar scent engulfs you, and you're sent on a rollercoaster of mixed emotions; you want to hug her and never let go, because she's all that's left of your mother, but at the same time, your body is strongly urging you to fling that door right back open and abscond, never to face this girl again. Yet something pulls you forward, and with every step you take, she shrinks further and further back, until you're sitting on the edge of her bed and she's back against the wall.

"I can't say I understand exactly what you're going through at the moment," you tell her, carefully choosing your words. You're slightly proud of how steady your voice is. "But I can assure you, Roxy, everything is going to work out."

There's a silence that only goes on for a few minutes, but seems to drag on for hours. She finally speaks up, a bitter laugh echoing in her throat. You realize then that the shadow of a scratchy tone in her voice is natural; your best guess is that it was a consequence of her addiction to alcoholic beverages. "You don't get it, Rosie." You involuntarily stiffen at the pet name. Roxy notices and seems to take it in with pleasure. "You never really got it."

"I don't understand." Roxy's eyes narrow and she glares at you. You can practically feel the loathing rolling off of her in waves, and some part of you half-expects to witness a dark flame swallow her whole.

"Yes, you do," she insists, biting down on her lower lip. "You left me alone in a fuckin' village of aliens in a house stuffed with nothing but alcohol and cats."

It takes the air right out of your lungs.

You knew about your own predicament with your mother, but you had never given much thought to the idea that you could be just an equally as shitty parent. In fact, you'd never given much thought to the concept of parenting at all. You always supposed that one day you would become enslaved to the psychological stage of Generativity vs. Stagnation and would be overwhelmed with a strong natural maternal instinct, but you'd never made any plans for what exactly you would do when that time arrived. You try to picture how you might cope with raising a child, a human being, but the image fails to present itself.

"That," you say, regaining your composure, "wasn't me. That was your mother."

Roxy's grip on the knitted scarf tightens dangerously, and a distorted sob wracks through her thin body. "Yes it was," she gasps, her knuckles going white. "It was you. I hate you." That's when you realize that Roxy's voice is lacking its typical drunken slur. She's actually sober for once. And while you recall reading in your bed at night when you were younger and listening to your mother stumble through the front door of the house, laughing to herself about some nonsensical thing, you don't think this is what you wanted when you wished she would stop drinking. You don't think anything could have ever prepared you for the reality of your mother, and whatever issues she might have had. Right now, you'd much rather Roxy be drunk instead of the broken disaster she is at the moment.

No. No more running away. No more being the flighty broad. You quietly shift in your spot, cautiously reaching over and taking her hand in yours. Her hands are boney and her palms are calloused, and they remind you of your mother's. Roxy visibly flinches and tries to pull away, but you only tighten your grip and tug her closer, forcing her to look you in the eye.

"I'm not her," you say, and you're not sure who you're trying to convince, but there's a heavy amount of chilling ice in your voice, and it at least convinces you, if not her. "I'm Rose. I'm not your mother. I didn't abandon you. _She did._ And I'm so sorry she did, but it's childish and stupid to continue to blame me."

The teenage girl is biting her lip even harder now, to the point where it's bleeding, and you can feel her hand shaking like mad. Her mouth opens, but quickly closes again as another sob escapes her.

Your gaze softens, and you slide your hand slowly up to her cheek to cup it, using your thumb to wipe the blood off of her lip. Her entire body goes still, aside from a slight tremble as a hiccup escapes her, but she doesn't pull away.

"I'm not her," you repeat, more quietly, gently reaching up and brushing aside a stray lock of wispy blonde hair from her face.

And that's when she tugs you forward slightly, resting her forehead against yours. Or, at least, you think that's what she intended for, but because of your comparatively shorter height, Roxy must've forgotten to bend down and, as a result, your lips are now awkwardly pressed against hers. You inhale sharply and move to draw back, but Roxy holds you in your place, already recovered from her initial surprise at the outcome of her mistake. Her lips are thinner than yours, but the way her mouth moves against yours is tantalizing. However, you're too dumbfounded to kiss back, leaving her to reluctantly pull away.

"Fuck," she says, running a hand through her tangled locks, "fuck, fuck, _fuck_. I'm so sorry, Rose. I'm _so_ sorry. I...I just...shit. I like you? I like you a lot. Like, a lot-a lot. God, I'm so messed up. You're just really pretty and super smart and you're completely snarky and sarcastic and I'm so terrible at this, I'm sorry-"

"Roxy." The other Lalonde's ramble derails itself as you interject, and she looks down at you, her eyes wide with a nervousness you've never seen in anyone before.

"Please don't leave me again," she chokes out in a small voice, much unlike the rambunctious, outgoing, loud girl she normally is.

You clasp both of your hands around one of hers, holding her trembling hand to your chest in what you hope is a gentle and sincere manner. She hiccups in response, her eyes glistening with the start of more tears. You feel her entire body tense up as you open your mouth to speak.

"Stop crying," you murmur. "You're much prettier when you smile."

Her eyebrows knit together in momentary confusion, before raising as her eyes widen in realization at the implication of your words.

And that's when the wonderful, indescribable sensation of her lovely lips moving against yours returns to your mouth.

**A/N:** I wrote this with the idea that maybe Roxy and the other alpha kids would somehow meet up with the betas, making a narrow escape from the miles or something or other. It's something I wrote before all the updates with the alpha god tiers and all that, so yeah. ~Sketch


End file.
